Читать книгу Pirate's Daughter, Rebel Wife - June Francis - Страница 8

Harry swore loudly, cursing the rain that almost blinded him as he slithered down the cliff path, gaining momentum as earth collapsed with the sheer volume of the rain, sending him hurtling towards the beach. He landed on the black sand on his hands and knees to the accompaniment of falling rocks. He drew in his breath with a hiss, his face drawn with pain, and pushed himself upright. He flicked back dripping dark hair and wiped his sodden face and beard on the sleeve of his doublet.

Had he really seen someone poised to jump into the churning sea from that ship? As suddenly as it had started the driving rain had stopped; he wasted no more time, but strode along the beach, scanning the waves for signs of that lonely figure. He was on the verge of turning back when he spotted something down by the shore. He put on a spurt and, as he drew closer, found a body sprawled face down on the sand.

He knelt down and, to his astonishment, discovered that it was a woman; and, more surprisingly, one who was able to swim—that was a rarity in his experience. She had girded the green skirts of her gown by tucking the ends into her belt at the back—no doubt so they wouldn’t hamper the movement of her legs in the water. He eased her into a sitting position, but the upper part of her body flopped forwards against his forearm. She made a choking sound and he thumped her on the back, attempting to free the water from her lungs. The tension inside him subsided as she began to cough, seawater and mucus staining the sleeve of his already soaked doublet. Eventually her coughing ceased, but the action must have drained any resources she had left after such a swim because she lay limp in his arms.

A single, long braid of sodden, dark red hair dangled against his thigh as he manoeuvred her gently round so that he could see her face more clearly. His heart seemed to lurch sideways. He had the oddest feeling that he had seen her likeness before. But where? Her skin was pallid, but it did not detract from her beauty. She had the daintiest of noses, full sensuous lips and a heart–shaped countenance.

At that moment a raindrop splashed on to her face and then another and another. He thought that the rain would rouse her, but although her cheek twitched, her eyelids remained closed. God’s Blood! What was he to do with her? She would be doubly soaked to the skin if he tried to carry her all the way to Machico. It seemed he had no choice but to take her to the house of his Portuguese friend, Jorge de Lobos, where Harry was staying.

His face tightened with concentration as he lifted her higher. Holding her close to his chest, he slowly rose to his feet. For a moment he swayed, but then recovered his balance, gritting his teeth against the pain in his thigh. He decided to keep to the beach as long as possible and prayed that there would be no landslides on his chosen path.

Despite the weight of her sodden garments he was able to make reasonable speed, conscious, all the time, of the woman’s ashen face and shallow breathing. He took extra care on the shale when he climbed on to the main path, fearing a disastrous fall. It was a relief when he reached the house and was able to put her down on a wooden settle in the entrance hall.

He eased his shoulders and shouted for Joe. When there was no response he made for the kitchen but that, too, was deserted. By the Trinity, where was the youth? Harry returned to the hall and stared down at the woman in the green gown. He found himself remembering the tales of mermaids that an erstwhile pirate called Callum McDonald had told him when he was a boy.

Harry, too, had been plucked from the sea, although he had only been a child. He had been out of his wits when he had woken on the pirate ship, unable to remember his own name or his age as a result of a blow to the head. He had been told by the pirates that his parents had died in a boating accident that had almost taken his life and it was a miracle he had survived. He scowled at the memory, scrubbing at the beard that concealed a hideous scar on his cheek.

He wondered what to do with this unexpected guest. Normally Harry did not have women in the house, but he knew there was naught for it but to keep her here for now. He drew in his breath with a hiss. She needed to be rid of her wet garments, so Joe must ride to Machico and fetch the widow, old Juanita, to undress her. But first Harry had to find him. He left the house and searched the gardens and the stables, but there was still no sign of the youth.

Exasperated, Harry returned to the house. Immediately, he noticed that the woman had moved because she was now curled up in a ball against the arm of the settle. He shook her shoulder and her eyelids opened, revealing red–rimmed eyes the colour of cobnuts. She squinted at him as if her eyes were sore and she was trying to focus. She muttered indistinctly and shrank back against the back of the settle, lifting her arm as if to shield herself from a blow, but then it flopped weakly across her breast and her eyelids closed.

Harry’s heart lurched in that peculiar fashion again and he ran a hand over his still–dripping black hair and beard. He took a deep breath and, without more ado, scooped her up into his arms and headed for the stairs, leaving a trail of water pooling on the floor. He took the marble steps slowly because the soles of his shoes were slippery and was relieved to reach the first floor without mishap. He carried her into the guest bedchamber and collapsed with her in his lap on top of the chest at the foot of the bed.

A loose damp tendril of auburn hair tickled his chin and he frowned as he gazed into the lovely face pillowed against his arm. ‘Mistress, you must rouse yourself,’ he said in Portuguese.

She moaned but, irritatingly, her eyes remained closed.

Harry lightly slapped her on both cheeks. ‘Wake up!’ he commanded.

This time she winced and her eyelids fluttered open and she appeared to stare up at him, only then to turn her face away. He could feel her shivering. ‘Mistress, will you wake up?’ he urged, tugging on her plait. She lifted a fist and for a moment he thought she would hit him, but then her arm dropped to her side. He smiled grimly. At least he seemed to be getting through to her. Again he lightly slapped her cheek.

‘If you—you do—do that again, my father w–will m–make you regret it one day,’ she stammered in the same language he had spoken.

Harry raised his eyebrows at her fractured accent and wondered where she had learnt Potuguese, as it obviously wasn’t her native tongue. ‘You must get out of your wet garments or you will catch a fever,’ he rasped. ‘There’s a bed here. Get yourself beneath the covers and I’ll see that food and drink is brought to you.’

She began to struggle. He found her amazingly strong, considering the energy she must have spent swimming ashore. But she could not match his strength and he captured both her wrists and held them above her head. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against his chest and was aware of sensations that he had not experienced for a while.

‘There is no need for you to fight me,’ he growled. ‘I will not hurt you. Now rouse yourself, undress and get into bed.’

To his dismay, her body sagged and her head fell forwards on to his shoulder. He flinched and tried to wake her once more, but whatever he did, it failed. He knew then that there was naught for it but to undress her himself.

His hands shook as he unfastened the belt from about her waist, so freeing the skirts she had girded there. Then he loosened the ties on the bodice of her gown. Noticing the design of the garment, he fingered the fabric, certain that it had been fashioned in England. So this mermaid was likely to be no peasant Portuguese woman, but could be English. What was she doing here and where was the father she had mentioned?

After removing her gown and having exposed the perfect roundness of her breasts in the damp, cream silk shift that clung to her skin, he knew that he would have had to have been made of wood, not to be stirred by their loveliness.

‘Holy Mary, mother of God,’ he groaned, clutching his hair with one hand and holding her off from him with the other, ‘What am I to do with you?’ There was no reply. Clearing his throat, he said loudly, ‘Mistress, you need to remove your shift. I will fetch one of my shirts for you to wear. We have no female apparel in this house.’

‘Men are s–s–such d–devils,’ she stuttered, her eyes still closed.

‘Women are no angels, either,’ he replied roundly, getting to his feet, leaving her sprawled out on the chest.

When she did not reply, he presumed that she had slipped into that semi–conscious state again. He dragged her upright and swung her over his shoulder. Then he carried her to the side of the bed and placed her down gently. Seizing hold of the thickly woven coverlet of red and brown, he pulled it over her to ensure she stayed warm before hastening from the bedchamber.

Harry stripped off his wet garments in his own bedchamber and rubbed himself dry. Then with the cloth wrapped around his nether regions, he went over to the window and pushed wide the shutters, staring down over the sloping garden that was fragrant with the perfume of scattered blossoms after the rain. His gaze fixed on the wide expanse of ocean, but could see no sign of a vessel. For as long as he could remember the sea had been his life and a ship his main home, but on days like this he was glad to be on land since the damage to his leg.

He turned from the window with an impatient movement and limped over to the armoire and chest. He removed all that he needed and donned undergarments, shirt, hose and doublet and pulled on boots before removing another shirt from the armoire. Then, gathering up his gloves and hat, he headed for the guest chamber.

He saw that the woman had managed to divest herself of her shift. She was lying on her side, her head close to the edge of the bed with her braid dangling so that its end touched the floor. He would have liked to have seen her hair newly washed with perfumed water, smelling sweetly of camomile or lavender, and hanging loose. He drew in his breath with a hiss. What was he thinking of, fixating on her hair? He could only be glad that her naked body was mostly covered!

He placed his shirt on the bed and was in the process of pulling up the coverlet further, when he saw the scarring on her back. For a moment he froze and then his fingers gently explored the weals in the soft skin across her shoulder blades and lower back. Anger exploded inside him. Someone had cruelly whipped her? Could a husband have done this? He reached for her left hand that was curled on the sheet beneath and found it ringless.

He peered closer at the scars and remembered the beatings he had suffered growing up on the pirate ship. He scowled as he drew the coverlet over her. Then, gathering up her discarded garments, he left the room. He went downstairs and this time was fortunate to find Joe preparing the evening meal.

‘We have a guest,’ said Harry in English, placing the clothing on the table where the youth was slicing an onion.

Joseph stared at the sodden green gown and darted a startled glance at Harry. ‘A woman?’

‘Of course it’s a woman, Joe! That’s a gown, isn’t it?’ Harry sank on to a chair. ‘And such a woman, Joe. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful she is. The odd thing is that I feel I have seen her before.’

‘God’s Blood! A woman under your roof!’ Joe’s voice rose to a squeak as he reached for the sodden gown and sniffed a handful of material. ‘This smells of the sea. Where did you find her?’

‘She swam ashore from a ship that was in trouble.’ Harry stared at Joe through his fingers. ‘Unusual a woman being able to swim, hey, Joe? I saw her drop into the sea and later came upon her sprawled on the sand. She is in the guest bedchamber, so keep your eye on her. I need to go out. I want to find out what’s happened to that ship.’

Joe had now found the silken shift and dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers. ‘Me!’ His blue eyes widened in dismay. ‘What’s she wearing if her clothes are here? Wh–what if—if she starts wandering around half–naked?’

‘Enough of that nonsense,’ snapped Harry, not wanting to dwell on the image the words conjured up. ‘I’ve left her one of my shirts and I doubt she has the strength to get off the bed. If she wakes, she’ll be in need of food and drink. Some soup, perhaps.’

Harry made his way to the stables and saddled up a horse. He rode in the direction where he had last seen the vessel, wanting a closer look at it if possible. He wondered if it had foundered on the rocks. If so, there was a possibility of there being survivors; if not, then others on the island might have seen the vessel and be planning to steal what they could, before those who owned the rights to salvage arrived on the scene.

Bridget was wakened by the sound of a door slowly opening and then stealthy footsteps approaching the bed. Her heart thudded as into her mind came an image of a man with shoulder–length black hair, angry dark eyes, a scar on his nose and a great black beard. She shivered, recalling the face of the master of the slave–trader ship who also had a great black beard. Her instincts were to sit up and defend herself but, not only did her limbs ache unbearably, her head throbbed and her throat felt raw. She was already aware that someone had taken her garments away and left a clean, soft woollen–and–linen shirt behind.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked in a husky voice.

‘I’ve brought you some soup and bread and a drink, mistress,’ replied a cautious young English voice.

Bridget was confused. Hadn’t her rescuer spoken to her in Portuguese earlier? She opened her eyes and stared at the youth holding a tray. He could not have been more different to the other man as night was from day. He had straw–coloured hair and a freckled face that was filled with curiosity.

‘You’re English,’ she stated in that tongue.

‘Aye, mistress.’

‘What is your name?’

‘I’m Joe,’ replied the gangly youth.

‘Where is the bearded man who was here earlier?’

‘That would be the captain. He’s gone off to see what’s happened to the ship you deserted.’

She prayed that he would find no sign of the ship or that it was wrecked and its master drowned. ‘The captain? Is he a mariner, then?’ she asked, picking up on what the youth called the man who had rescued her.

‘Aye.’

‘He—he looked fearsome. Is he Portuguese?’

‘No, he’s English and you have naught to fear from him.’ He gave her a reassuring gap–toothed smile. ‘Here, mistress, I’ll leave your food and drink on this little table here. You get it down you and then have another little sleep.’

Bridget clutched the open neck of the shirt and managed to ease herself into a sitting position. ‘Tell me, where am I?’

He paused in the doorway without looking back. ‘You’re on the island of Madeira, mistress,’ he replied and closed the door before she could ask him any more questions.

Bridget sank back against the pillows. Her relief was such that tears filled her eyes and threatened to overpower her. Praise the Trinity that she had at last reached her destination! Now she must hope that she had not arrived here in vain. She remembered her first meeting with the man she still thought of as Captain Black Harry. She and her father, Callum, had been on the coast of Ireland after escaping from a brigand called Patrick O’Malley and his cutthroats. For many a summer past Callum had set sail with young warriors from Scotland to support his Irish wife’s family in their battles with the O’Malleys. That summer two years ago his luck had run out and Callum had lost not only his fortune, but his ship.

When Bridget had met Captain Black Harry, she was alone, having left her father trying to persuade the master of another ship to take them back to Scotland with only the promise of payment when they arrived there. She had been embarrassed due to his need to beg for help. Then she had walked slap bang into the handsomest young man she had ever seen. He had helped her to her feet and she had begged his pardon. He had inclined his head and asked in the Gaelic whether he could be of further assistance to her.

Impulsively she had explained their situation and he had escorted her back to Callum. Only then did she discover that the two men had sailed together when Black Harry was a boy. They had much to say to each other and had headed for the nearest tavern.

Bridget frowned as she reached for the cup on the table and gulped down the drink thirstily. If only she had overheard their discussion, she would have been more prepared for what happened the next day. Her eyes darkened. She would never forget what she considered Black Harry’s hardhearted treatment of her.

She placed the cup on the table and reached for the food. She dunked the bread in the soup and, despite being ravenous, ate slowly because it hurt to swallow. As she gazed at her surroundings, her eyes began to feel heavy. The white walls appeared to waver and the blue shutters at the window shimmered. On another wall was a niche holding a statue of the Madonna and Child and they appeared to be smiling at her. She fumbled for the cup, picked it up and sniffed it. Had she been drugged? The lad might have assured her that she had naught to fear from the captain, but could she trust him? She had suffered sorely at the hands of men in the past and she felt a rising panic. Her last thought before she slipped into unconsciousness was of her father.

‘You put what into her drink?’ exploded Harry.

‘Only a little poppy juice, Captain,’ replied Joe hastily, backing away from him. ‘It was what Juanita gave to me when I couldn’t sleep for my aches and pains after I was attacked in the town. She dosed you with it, too! It’s not that long since we returned from Africa with you wounded so bad, and I thought you’d not only never walk again, but smash every looking glass in sight.’

A muscle clenched in Harry’s jaw. He would never forget seeing his scarred reflection in the mirror for the first time. Later, when he had rattled in the cart into town, the women who had previously fallen into his arms had shrunk away from him and walked by on the other side of the street. Deeply hurt and also suffering agony from the wound in his thigh, he had grown a beard to conceal the scar and chose to keep away from women altogether.

‘What if she suspects you’ve drugged her?’ Harry pointed out.

‘Why should she? Surely she’ll deem her feeling drowsy is due to exhaustion after swimming ashore? I was only trying to ease any pain she was in.’

Harry gazed at him with exasperation. ‘I suppose you thought you were doing what was best, but I wanted to question her. Now I’ll probably have to wait several hours before she wakes up. Don’t ever do such a thing again without my permission, Joe, or you’ll be out on your ear!’ He paused. ‘So what did you think of her?’

‘Comely. Her eyes are hurting her. She could do with a potion to bathe them. More importantly, Captain, is the information that she does speak English and there is a lilt to her voice that convinces me that it is not her first language.’

Harry nodded.

‘So what happened to the ship?’ asked Joe.

‘I could see no sign of any wreckage, so it appears that her master managed to avoid the rocks. Perhaps on the morrow I will have a search made for the ship.’ He changed the subject. ‘Now, Joe, what about supper?’

‘I’ll have it ready for you, Captain, in no time at all.’

‘Then I will dine as soon as I make certain that the lady is still breathing. In the morning you can wash her clothes along with mine.’

Harry climbed the stairs, disposed of his outdoor clothes and went to visit his guest. He drew a chair up to the bed and looked down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and when he placed his hand on her forehead, he found it hot and dry. Damnation! She was feverish. Hopefully her condition would not worsen.

He leaned back in the chair, thinking as soon as she was awake he would ask what was her name and for information about the ship and her father. Now he would have supper and return here later. Perhaps she would be willing to speak to him then.

Bridget felt as if she was floating, drifting in that state betwixt sleep and wakefulness. She was aware of discomfort and of being hot one moment and then cold the next. She had vague memories of a man lifting her and being carried in his arms. He had a great black beard, but he was not the cruel master of the slave–trader’s ship who had beaten her for her defiance of him. Even so, could she trust him? There was something that had happened before she fell asleep that worried her, but she could not remember what it was.

She heard a door open and footsteps. A chair creaked and she sensed it was not the lad, but him. He must be sitting by the bed and looking down at her. She could feel his wine–scented breath on her cheek and then she felt him lift her damp curls and feel her brow. She struggled to force open her eyelids, but when she managed to prise them apart, the candlelight so hurt her eyes that she swiftly closed them again. Even so that brief moment was long enough for her to catch a glimpse of him: he with the strong nose, dark brows, frowning eyes and that great black beard. She shivered.

‘So you’re awake,’ he said roughly. ‘You’re feverish and that is an inconvenience.’

‘Perhaps you should have left me on the shore to die,’ she whispered.

‘That’s a foolish remark to make,’ he growled, ‘Why did you swim ashore if it were not because you wanted to live?’

‘That is true. I was in fear of the slave trader. Do you know what happened to the ship?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I could see no sign of it.’

‘So that beast could still be alive!’ She grasped his arm with a tremblimg hand. ‘You must not tell him I am here.’

‘His ship could still be in difficulties further round the coast. I shall see what I can find out on the morrow. Now don’t fret yourself about him. You are safe here.’

Was she? She gazed into his eyes, but could not read his expression and could only pray that he was telling her the truth. She sank back against the pillows, exhausted.

‘How did you come to be on his ship?’ asked Harry.

‘I was sold to him by a pirate in Africa,’ she whispered. ‘I deem originally the slave–trader’s aim was to sell me to some Eastern potentate, but his woman was utterly against such a plan. She wanted me as her servant. She was very beautiful and he could refuse her nothing. We sailed to different islands with slaves, to Tenerife, the Cape Verde Islands. Sometimes we went ashore for several days and twice we returned to Africa for more slaves. I tried to escape, only to be beaten for my attempts. Then disease struck the ship and one by one people began to die.’

Harry felt anger and pity and knew that she’d had a very lucky escape indeed. But what she had said about disease disturbed him greatly. ‘What was this disease?’ he asked.

‘I do not know its name, but I deem it was not the plague,’ she said hastily.

He frowned. ‘How do you know? Have you seen people die of the plague?’

‘No, but I know someone who suffered from the smallpox and she described its symptoms to me.’ Bridget’s eyelids drooped wearily despite all her efforts to stay awake.

Harry was relieved to hear that she had not been in contact with that horrendous disease. Still, he hoped that she had not been infected by whatever had struck down those on the ship. ‘Sleep now,’ he said. ‘We will speak again in the morning.’

The door closed behind him and she drifted into sleep. Now her dreams were not of the slave trader, but of her father and how the handsome Captain Black Harry had offered him a berth on his ship that was sailing westwards in search of a passage to the Indies. Her father’s conversation to her had been full of plans to regain his lost fortune. His excitement had been infectious and Bridget had been just as eager as Callum to take part in such an adventure. But then Captain Black Harry had refused to have her on board his ship and so, rather than allowing her to accompany the men to the Indies, instead he had paid for her passage to Scotland to the home of her father’s brother and his wife.

Now fear stalked her dreams. For her kindly aunt had died and her Uncle Ranald had taken her south to the home of his mistress, Lady Monica Appleby, once a McDonald and twice married. Both wanted to get their hands on her father’s hoard and would not believe Bridget when she’d told them it had all been stolen. They had even tried to force her into marriage with the lady’s imbecile son. She must escape! She had to get away from them!

Bridget shifted restlessly in the bed and began to cough. She was aware of the sound of footfalls and a door opened. She started with fright, for outside it was now dark and the candle burning beneath the statue of the Madonna and Child cast shadows on the walls. Her heart thudded inside her breast as she watched the captain approach her.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘You will need to sit up if you are not to spill this potion,’ he said in a low voice.

She remembered the conviction that she’d had earlier about the drink she had downed and croaked, ‘Potion! Are you wanting to poison me? I deem the drink I was brought earlier was drugged.’

‘A little poppy juice, that is all,’ he said easily. ‘Joe deemed it would ease your pain. By the Trinity, why should I wish to poison you? I might consider some women cruel and selfish, but the truth is that I heard you coughing. Now drink up and pray to God that in the morning you will be rid of the fever.’

Did he speak the truth? It was certainly true that her body ached all over. She struggled to sit up, but the act was beyond her. The captain perched on the side of the bed and hauled her upright, slipping an arm about her shoulders. He reached for the cup and held it to her dry lips. As she felt warm liquid trickle into her mouth, she was aware of the strength in the arm that held her and hated being in his power. So he considered women cruel and selfish, did he? Well, no more so than she thought some men arrogant and brutal. Even so she had no choice but to suffer the captain’s ministrations for the moment. She swallowed thirstily until the cup was empty.

Harry lowered her against the pillows and watched as, with a faint sigh, she drifted back into sleep. He did not immediately leave the room, but remained sitting in the chair at her bedside. There was a definite lilt to her voice and it would not surprise him if her first language was the Gaelic. He found himself thinking of Callum McDonald and his daughter, Bridget. What had happened to Callum after he had disappeared sixteen months ago along with one of Harry’s two ships, Odin’s Maiden?

His eyes darkened with anger. God’s Blood! He had made a mistake in trusting that wily old pirate when they had met again in Ireland. He should never have offered him a helping hand or been keen to assist the lovely but hot–tempered Bridget, who would now be a young woman of seventeen or eighteen summers.

He gazed down at the beautiful face on the pillow, trying to imagine how this woman might have looked two years ago, remembering how he had considered Bridget older than her years when he had first set eyes on her. Then he had discovered she was much younger than he’d thought, and knew he must put some distance between them in order to protect her from herself. She had been furious with him and he had likened her to an angry cat, spitting out accusations that he was well–named Black Harry because he had a black heart. How dare he separate her from her father, she had ranted. She had attempted to persuade Callum to get him to budge from his stance, but the old pirate had told her in Harry’s hearing that it did not do to cross Black Harry. It was then that Harry realised that Callum also did not want to take his daughter with him on such a risky venture, but did not have the heart to tell her.

So Harry had parted from Bridget with her insults ringing in his ears. If naught else, her behaviour had proved to him that however comely she was, she still had some growing up to do. She knew what shipboard life was like from having sailed with her father after her mother had died. Surely her common sense should have told her that his decision was the right one? He certainly hoped she had come to realise that in the past two years.

He continued to gaze down at the woman in the bed. Was she Bridget McDonald? She certainly had a look of her. If she was Bridget, then where was her father? When Callum had vanished along with Harry’s ship, he had wondered if the man’s intention had been to cross the northern seas and make landfall in Scotland in order to be reunited with his daughter. Yet here she was in Madeira, having just escaped a slave–trader’s vessel. Perhaps Callum had never arrived in Scotland and, along with Harry’s ship and other crew, was now at the bottom of the ocean?

Harry could scarcely contain his impatience for her to wake up and to provide him with some answers to his questions!